


ERROR

by Xairathan



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22894771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan
Summary: Your figure sleeping in the corner of my unconscious / It hurts, it hurts
Relationships: Jeanne d'Arc Alter | Avenger/Nagao Kagetora | Lancer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	ERROR

**Author's Note:**

> You know what we don't have yet? A Kagetora character study.  
> You know what we have now? More Jaltora.  
> The lyrics are completely unrelated to this fic, kinda, I just really wanted to make a Sleepwalk reference and couldn't do so in the fic because it was like 80% written by the time I discovered that song. The actual title is derived off the vocaloid song ERROR, whose lyrics are not appearing in this film either.

A melody of steel and wood fills Shinjuku’s broken streets. Kagetora walks methodically between the clusters of bodies, spear flashing in time with the flickering of the one remaining streetlight. Opposite her, Jeanne Alter leans against a wall, watching Kagetora work with distaste. She never lingers on Kagetora for long; it’s always quick to flit elsewhere: to the ever-blackened sky, or else to the distant clusters of lights that mark the tower known as the Gun Barrel.

One stab to the head, a second to the chest. This is the rhythm that Kagetora knows as well as her own heartbeat. Though she’ll never say it aloud, she’s glad the enemy has sent automatons tonight, and not more armored men. Accustomed to it as Kagetora may be, the stench of blood never fades any quicker, nor does she derive any enjoyment from hearing the feeble pleas of humans too ignorant to know of their own imminent deaths. This is just a part of her duty as the god of war: cleaning up the battlefield, ensuring that the suffering of those who fall upon it is no longer than it needs to be.

Jeanne Alter, it would seem, does not understand that about her. Her mouth is curled in a heavy scowl when Kagetora turns back to her, angry amber eyes narrowed. “You done?” Jeanne Alter spits at her. “Can we finally finish our fucking patrol?”

“Technically, our patrol ended as soon as we finished eliminating these enemies.” Kagetora nudges the nearest automaton with a foot, filling the alleyway with a subtle clanking. “There was no stipulation that said you had to accompany me once we had secured the perimeter.”

“Yeah, and if I came back without you, I’d get an earful from your stupid Master about leaving you behind.” Jeanne Alter grits her teeth, letting her breath escape in a hiss between her lips. “Whatever. You _are_ done, right?”

Kagetora spins her spear at her side, shaking remnant drops of oil loose onto the pavement. “Yes, I am,” she says.

“Good. Fuckin’ finally.” Jeanne Alter pushes off the wall with her heel, tugging her cape tight over her shoulders. She does not leave immediately, instead sweeping her gaze over the dozen heaps of metal smoldering in piles along the road. “I don’t have to put up with you playing surgeon on those things anymore.”

“Those things, as you put them, were once humans,” Kagetora points out. “Thus, it was my duty to ensure that they were properly put to rest.”

“Yeah, and you were so torn up about it.” Jeanne Alter shakes her head, scuffing the sidewalk with a jab of her boot. “Is there any time you aren’t smiling, you goddamn freak?”

The answer comes to Kagetora at once. There had been such a time so many centuries ago— but Kagetora does not say this. Jeanne Alter’s words have stirred up memories left buried and better off forgotten: a string of wooden beads wrapped tight around Kagetora’s fingers and trailing down her palm, sutras falling from her lips as easily as battle cries. She had remembered how to stop smiling at that same time that she had still remembered to pray for the dead. Prayers to Bishamonten were serious, after all, and warranted her full attention.

(But then, she’d thought, if she didn’t smile while she prayed, then was it truly something done for the benefit of those fallen humans? Nagao Kagetora was supposed to help humans with a smile; Nagao Kagetora did not smile as she walked the silent battlefields, the whisper of her robes behind her like the breath of passing Death. Nagao Kagetora was supposed to wish for what was righteous, and yet she had prayed for rest for the dead and victory for the living in the same breath. Always more victory, always more conflicts to emerge triumphant from— for the sake of those humans, and in the name of Bishamonten).

To answer _yes_ would be to breathe life into those worn memories. To say anything but _no_ would be to speak of a time before those prayers had become irrelevant. You see, Kagetora is the avatar of Bishamonten, divine; and gods need not pray to themselves.

(To answer _yes_ would be a reminder of the truth that Kagetora wishes she could forget. She’d abandoned all hope of being understood with those prayers, and taken up the Eight Treasures of Bishamonten instead.)

Jeanne Alter sees none of this stirring behind Kagetora’s eyes. All she can see is Kagetora’s smile, still fixed and unchanged, and the vacantness of her stare. Kagetora doesn’t say anything to her— just tilts her head, just surveys her sightlessly, as if she’s merely looking over another battlefield.

“Fuck this,” Jeanne Alter huffs, spinning sharply on her heel. “I don’t even know why I bothered asking. Of course you wouldn’t. I bet you wore that same shitty smile the whole time you were off saving humanity. I bet you smile even when you sneeze.”

The city hums with noise again, but it’s just Jeanne Alter stalking away, her heavy footfalls ringing like crystal over the rooftops. Kagetora listens to her go, still standing motionless amongst the automatons. The nearest one lies with its face upturned to her, staring at her with divots in its case like eyes. Nothing about it moves Kagetora, though she knows it should. If she were human, she might mourn it— if she were human, might she pray?

(It’s an impossible thought. Those wooden beads remain lost to her for the same reason she still chases the name of Nagao Kagetora. She’d left them behind for her acquired Divinity, just as she’d discarded that feeble dream of being mistaken for human.)

“Hey!” Jeanne Alter’s voice cuts cleanly through Kagetora’s thoughts, undercut thick with anger. “Catch up, or I’m leaving you out here, you got it?”

That distraction is all it takes to pull Kagetora away. Her relinquished spear vanishes in a burst of white lightning, drowning the alleyway in silver one final time. Kagetora slips away in the span of the street light’s labored breath, a pale shadow catching up to the blackened holy woman who stands waiting for her at the street corner.

“Come on.” Jeanne Alter’s fingers wrap around Kagetora’s wrist as they draw even, tugging at her insistently. “I’m not getting any fucking warmer waiting around out here for you. When we get back, you’re giving me your hood as an apology for keeping me out here so long. You understand?”

Kagetora doesn’t see a reason to reply. There is none— Jeanne Alter’s just speaking for the sake of speaking, filling the air so that Kagetora’s thoughts can find no purchase in it. Of Kagetora’s companions, Jeanne Alter alone knows what sorts of memories are dredged up on nights like these. It’s why she burns the silence away with her scathing voice until they’re back in Saber’s stronghold, why she keeps such a tight grip on Kagetora even once they’ve entered and sealed the door behind them.

“You’re such a pain in the ass to work with, you know that?” Jeanne Alter says. Her hands tangle in the fabric sea of Kagetora’s robes, working at her hood. “I’m taking this for tonight. It’s your payment to me for putting up with you.”

When Kagetora fails to respond again, Jeanne Alter’s grip loosens and falls away. “Damn you, Kenshit,” she mutters beneath her breath. “Give me something to work with. I’d prefer you pretend to be that shitty god of war than dead inside-”

Just like that, Kagetora moves again. Jeanne Alter has asked for something; she, as is her duty, is only happy to oblige. As if she’s practiced the motions a thousand times before, Kagetora unloops her hood from around her shoulders and drapes the cloth over Jeanne Alter’s head like a towel. “There,” she says, her tone light and level. “Is that better?”

Jeanne Alter tugs at the hood for a moment, worrying it between her fingers. Then, just as swiftly, it’s flung back in Kagetora’s face and kept there by Jeanne Alter’s arms thrown around her neck. “Damn you,” she repeats, her voice no louder than a whisper. “You and that fucking smile. You and-”

Jeanne Alter says no more, but she does not leave. She stands braced against Kagetora, her hot breath washing over Kagetora’s shoulder, until her fatigue catches up with her, pulling her feet out from under her and dropping her like a stone.

(If she wakes up in the morning settled on a couch, Kagetora’s hood still warm and draped over her like a blanket— it’s nothing; it does not speak of a vigil as dutiful as Jeanne Alter’s was necessary; it’s just Kagetora, paying what is owed as she should.)

* * *

The city has stilled, the Phantom Fiend Alliance members keeping within the borders of their territory. They’ve learned, it seems, that the new Chaldean stronghold is guarded by more Servants than they could hope to take on all at once.

A sharp breath cuts through the city’s ambient hum. Jeanne Alter rolls over in place beside Kagetora, cheekbone grinding into Kagetora’s thigh. She’s asleep, as she’s prone to be on those nights she’s given the watch with Kagetora. “This is boring as shit,” she’d said before she’d nodded off; “There’s nothing to see, and you’ll just tell me if anything happens, anyway.”

Kagetora hadn’t protested those words, nor Jeanne Alter twisting in place to plop her head between Kagetora’s crossed legs. She wonders why she hadn’t— it wouldn’t be too late, even now, to rouse Jeanne Alter from her sleep and demand she do as is expected of her. Instead, all Kagetora does is run her gloved fingers over the crown of the Alter’s head, smiling at the way that one loose sprig of hair bobs in time with the motion.

She’s been too lenient with Jeanne Alter; Kagetora knows this. She knows, too, why that is. Were it not for Jeanne Alter sprawled out at her side, the night could be mistaken for one of many others spent alone and awake in the early morning hours. Jeanne Alter changes that. It’s impossible to ignore the heat and weight of her body, the tang of ash and sweat emanating from her skin after their patrols. This sort of company is entirely foreign to the avatar of Bishamonten; it reminds her, in Jeanne Alter’s minute stirrings and the synchronous motion of their breathing, that there are still some things known only to Nagao Kagetora.

(Kagetora wonders though, on these nights, if it is Nagao Kagetora that Jeanne Alter sees. She wants to believe that’s so. Jeanne Alter, with her hatred of gods and belief, would never settle at the side of a god so willingly. But then there are the names that Jeanne Alter calls her; Kenshit and Bitchamonten, and never Kagetora. It could only mean that Jeanne Alter sees her in the same way all the others do— as Uesugi Kenshin, Echigo’s god of war, a legend brought forth from history with a human name on her tongue and a fool’s hope in her chest.)

Whatever Jeanne Alter sees her as, that’s not for Kagetora to know. She’ll never ask, much like she’ll never speak into being what she knows already to be true. She’s as much the god of war whose mantle she claimed as she is the forgotten Nagao Kagetora who finds Jeanne Alter’s company welcome, though she may never understand why.

Below, Jeanne Alter stirs again: her shoulders creep closer to her ears; her arms press tighter to her body, as though fighting off a chill. It’s not this that gives Kagetora pause. She’s grown used to Jeanne Alter’s restless sleep, to her tendency to wake suddenly with eyes and palms alight with flame. Her eyes go to the hand nestled in Jeanne Alter’s hair, moving through it with slow, repetitive motions, nearly in time with her steadfast heartbeat.

That isn’t right. Kagetora’s hand goes still with the lulling in her chest.

She hadn’t noticed when she’d begun stroking Jeanne Alter’s hair. From the roteness of it, the lingering sensation in her fingertips, it must have been some time ago.

(That’s not something the avatar of Bishamonten had ever done. It could only be Kagetora, thinking to comfort herself, or else to chase after those semblances of humanity she’d longed so often for—)

A sound makes its way to Kagetora’s ears: a soft, muffled grunt. Another one follows, accompanied by the slight shaking of her head. She’s felt Kagetora’s absence, the lack of the calming contact and that soothing interruption of her dream.

Now Kagetora knows what’s to be done. Her hand resumes its methodical movement, caressing Jeanne Alter’s head from the top to the bare skin of her neck. There’s nothing wrong with this. After all, it’s what Jeanne Alter wants. If she likes it, if it’s for her sake, then of course it would be Kagetora’s duty to oblige her. That Kagetora herself wants to do this is of no consequence. She’s simply fulfilling Jeanne Alter’s request, as is her role as the avatar of Bishamonten. She enjoys this no more than that sound on the passing wind could be her name wafting up from Jeanne Alter’s lips; no more than the settling warmth in her stomach could be anything but passing satisfaction.

* * *

Any stillness is prone to be disturbed at the first opportunity. Kagetora knows this well from her years as a daimyo; more often than not, Jeanne Alter is the one who’s doing the disturbing. Tonight, it’s the Phantom casting ripples across Shinjuku’s surface. Hordes of doll-like automatons blot out the asphalt with their bodies, and even more scuttle towards Jeanne Alter and Kagetora on the walls.

It’s a futile effort. That much became clear to Jeanne Alter from the moment the first automaton caught, its throaty shrieks swelling in time with the building inferno and the howls of its companions.

Jeanne Alter’s laughter pierces through it all, as though her mirth is just another stake to be thought into being and flung— that’s how little it matters to her. The only things she concerns herself with are the weight of her sword against her gauntlets, the flare of her fire, directed in rivers against the advancing enemy.

That impasse lasts for a handful of seconds, enough time for Kagetora to blink the sudden brightness from her eyes. Jeanne Alter is already gone when her vision clears, racing into the crowd with her sword alight, feeding the flame with the oil gushing from the automatons she cuts down. Kagetora follows close behind her, an unnecessary rear guard. What Jeanne Alter’s sword fails to cleave, her stakes impale; what those miss, her fire consumes entirely. The automatons crumple like aluminum cans, just as quickly tossed aside, charred shells and glassy marble eyes reflecting the blaze in a thousand crimson facets. And there, above it all, spirling with the smoke and the sounds of destruction, is Jeanne Alter’s laugh: maniacal, cracking but unbroken, an eerie echo of a time Jeanne Alter knows nothing of.

Even ringing off the buildings, distorted by Shinjuku’s shape, that laugh is familiar to Kagetora. It would have to be— it’s hers, after all. She had laughed that way as she fought, taking in the sight of the dead like fine drink, just strong enough to blunt the things her retainers would whisper behind her back. She’d laughed off their words, and bore them no animosity. After all, how could mere humans hope to understand the whims of the god of war?

Jeanne Alter has no such worries. Still, she continues to laugh as she dances between the ranks of automatons, setting upon them with fire and blade. Kagetora, standing still at the edge of the blaze, is reminded of Jeanne Alter’s moniker. In the rising embers, roaring with her head thrown back and the full force of her voice, Jeanne Alter truly looks the part of the Dragon Witch.

The fight, if it could be called as much, ends as swiftly as it started. Between the intensity of the fire and the soot dusting the motionless sea of parts, Kagetora finds no reason to do her usual sweep of the battlefield. She moves instead to where Jeanne Alter stands, arms dropped down at her sides, sword still clutched in one unsteady hand. She doesn’t acknowledge Kagetora’s approach, no look up when Kagetora asks her, “Did you have fun, Alter?”

Jeanne Alter doesn’t respond at first. She sways in place, a hot gust of wind ruffling her hair, simply looking over the desolated asphalt. She turns slowly back to Kagetora, her expression vacant, the last dregs of a fading emptiness lingering in her eyes. She glimpses Kagetora— blinks, blinks again— and then that expression is gone. All that’s there is Jeanne Alter’s teeth bared in a snarl to match her slit-narrow pupils. “What the fuck kind of question is that?” she snaps, flinging her sword down. It vanishes before it can begin to bounce, showering Jeanne Alter’s boots in a spray of withered gold. “So what if I was? Why the hell should you care about that?”

“You were laughing,” Kagetora says mildly. “Humans laugh when they’re amused. Right?”

“Yeah, and?” Jeanne Alter runs an ash-stained hand along her matted hair, pulling dark gray streaks through it. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna get on my case for enjoying a good fight, Kenshit. You do the same, so don’t you fucking start-”

“That’s not what I intended to ask,” Kagetora interjects smoothly, holding back Jeanne Alter’s protests with a wave of her hand. “I asked because I was curious. If you truly were enjoying yourself, as you say you were, then why did you look so upset, I wonder?”

“I looked- I wasn’t-” Jeanne Alter stammers for a moment, cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “You know what? I’m not taking this from you tonight. Like you said, once the enemy’s dead, I can go back. So-” Jeanne Alter moves towards Kagetora, intending to shoulder past her. She’s stopped short by Kagetora’s hand on her arm, holding her in place with its unrelenting grip. “The fuck do you want now?”

“Could it be, perhaps…” Kagetora continues, pausing only to cock her head curiously at Jeanne Alter. “...that you’re not nearly as satisfied as you pretend to be?”

Jeanne Alter bristles, jerking back. Kagetora’s hand slips from her shoulder, but that’s all. Kagetora remains planted firmly in Jeanne Alter’s path, still watching her with the same impassive smile as ever. She doesn’t react beyond a blink to the anger flaring behind Jeanne Alter’s eyes, nor to the gauntlet grabbing hold of the front of her armor.

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” Jeanne Alter hisses. At this proximity, Kagetora sees the tension in her jaw, the way her gaze darts along Kagetora’s face, as though afraid to venture anywhere close to her eyes. “Just because I tolerate working with you, that doesn’t give you the right to go prying into everything that I do. You understand me, Kenshit?”

This time, Kagetora’s response is nowhere as immediate as the others. She simply stands there, silent, her scrutiny far hotter than any fire Jeanne Alter has called forth from herself. With an expression as dead as Kagetora’s, it’s impossible to tell what’ll come next. She could shake Jeanne Alter off; she could decide, with no warning, that it’s time for the rematch they’re so fond of threatening each other with.

But all Kagetora does is step back, pulling herself out of Jeanne Alter’s reach. She utters no rebuke, merely says, “It’s too open out here to have a discussion like this. That Saber should be taking the watch now. There’s no need for us to remain out here any longer.”

“So that’s it?” Jeanne Alter’s hands ball into fists, the right one rattling her armor with tremors. “You’re going to turn tail and run, you coward?”

“It’s you who refuses to answer my question,” Kagetora replies smoothly. A lift and wave of her fingers suffices as a farewell gesture, though she does not leave without a final parting word. “Should you wish to continue our conversation, you know very well where you can find me.”

She leaves Jeanne Alter staring after her receding back and the heaps of ruined automatons lining the street. The whole way back to the base, Kagetora does not allow herself to look over her shoulder to check if Jeanne Alter is following. If space is what Jeanne Alter wants now, that’s what Kagetora will give to her (never mind the pinprick stinging in her chest, that impossible wish that Jeanne Alter might find reason enough in herself to grace Kagetora’s doorway with her shadow for another night).

* * *

Jeanne Alter finds herself once again in front of Kagetora’s room. The golden glow emanating from the crack in the door frame tells her that Kagetora’s inside— waiting, no doubt, for Jeanne Alter to come visit her.

(She has, Jeanne Alter notes with growing bitterness, been coming to this room with a regularity that neither of them would ever care to admit.)

She’s not here for Kagetora’s company. Jeanne Alter shakes her head, pats her cheeks with her palms. She’s only here to prove that stupid Bitchamonten wrong, to show her that Jeanne Alter is not one to shy away from her. Once she’s wiped that damn smug smile from Kenshit’s face, that’ll be a job considered done, and reason enough for Jeanne Alter to return to her own quarters.

Jeanne Alter’s shoulder knocks against the door, shoving it aside with no warning or declaration of her presence. Her dramatic entrance is for naught: Kagetora doesn’t look up from her armor and robes, neatly arranged on the table beside her bed, nor does she turn towards the door. As Jeanne Alter moves towards her, her eyes follow the subtle shift of light over Kagetora’s exposed skin, faint silver lines long since faded into her back and sides. For all the times she’s seen Kagetora like this, Jeanne Alter’s never noticed them until now. Aside from Kagetora, she might be the only one to know they’re there (forget the fact that even knowing of their existence would require finding Kagetora outside her perpetual state of battle-readiness, which she rarely ever leaves).

“Hello, Alter.” Kagetora still doesn’t turn around. She seems content to stay where she is, more concerned with undoing her ponytail than the Alter storming towards her. “I see you decided to come visit me after all.”

“Cut your shit, Bitchamonten,” Jeanne Alter snarls. A few quick steps covers the distance between the door and Kagetora, who finally sees fit to look up at her. “I only want to hear one thing from you, and that’s whatever the hell you were being so vague about out there.”

Kagetora hums, pauses, tilts her head. Her hair, now free of its bindings, falls in loose disarray around her shoulders. “You’re quite impatient tonight,” remarks Kagetora. “But if that’s what you wish from me, then I’ll tell you. When we were outside, when I asked you if you were truly enjoying yourself, I did so because I knew you weren’t.”

“Bullshit,” Jeanne Alter snaps immediately, instinctively. “You don’t know that. What gives you the right to say shit like that about me?”

“I once felt the same way.” Kagetora says this with the air of someone discussing the weather, as though she’s merely speaking of someone she knows, and not herself. “During my days as the Dragon of Echigo, I lived to take the battlefield. Those moments were the times I felt the happiest, when I was myself the most.” Kagetora’s smile quivers at the edges, unspoken words working past her closed lips and into the air between them: _when I felt the most human_.

Surrounded by the rapid exchange of life and death, Kagetora had found the most excitement in the weight of a body against her spear, the sensation of warm blood seeping into her robes. It was her duty to safeguard the weak; she was more than happy to. For some time, she’d remained oblivious to her retainers’ whispering, basking only in the frenzy of emotion that came with each fight. But no matter how many she’d slain or saved, no matter how great her victory, the words she was met with were always the same: _monster, terrifying, inhuman._ It was then she’d understood— sometime between swings of her weapons and her frequent marches to war, she’d mistaken the thrill of killing for righteous satisfaction. She’d let herself forget that, at the end of all the killing, what remained would be a world without conflict: a world with no need for a god of war, no place for someone like herself to belong.

“But it didn’t last,” Kagetora continues. “How could it? All battles must come to an end, after all. So I was left in the same place as you— with that same laugh, too. You’ve realized the same thing that I did, haven’t you? No matter how much you fight or destroy, you’ll never find your fulfillment in it. Isn’t that why you were laughing?”

Suddenly, Jeanne Alter’s grateful for the shabbiness of the place Saber has chosen as her hideout. In the dim and unreliable lighting, Kagetora can’t notice how quickly the blood drains from her face, nor see the way her sword hand trembles against her side. “You’re wrong.” Jeanne Alter spits the words with as much force as she can manage. “I was- you wouldn’t understand!” The edges of Jeanne Alter’s mouth lift unevenly, fending off the tremor threatening to seize hold of her lips. “You don’t get to talk to me about shit like _feelings_ and _happiness,_ not when you’re the last person alive who could understand anything like that, let alone me!”

“Perhaps.” Kagetora glances down, running her hands along the edge of the table behind her. “But there must be some reason you keep coming back to me.”

“Because it amuses me, that’s why!” Jeanne Alter slams an armored fist against her palm, grinding her hands together. “If this is how you’re going to be, then I’ll just not come back anymore!”

Kagetora pushes off from the table, closing the distance between them with all the speed she displays on the battlefield. She’s taller, and Jeanne Alter hates that, hates having to look up to bring her burning stare against Kagetora’s. “Is that true?” Kagetora asks, eyes narrowing slightly. “I don’t think it is.”

“And why not? Why don’t you enlighten me, O Great Bitchamonten?”

“There’s something I noticed that’s unique about you.” Kagetora leans in, bringing her face to within inches of Jeanne Alter’s. If only headbutting her wouldn’t be likely to leave Jeanne Alter with a headache. “Of everyone else I’ve encountered, you are the first one who isn’t unnerved when I look at you.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re the only person who isn’t afraid of me,” Kagetora says. “I thought- rather, I hoped- that it was because you’re like me.”

“Me, like you?” Jeanne Alter scoffs, a hint of confidence rekindling in her chest. She’s learned what Kagetora had meant to say; there’s no reason for her to remain here any longer, so long as she can find a reason to leave. “You sure you aren’t drunk outta your mind, Kenshit? How could you and I-”

“You are at your most content when you are fighting,” Kagetora answers without even letting Jeanne Alter finish her question. “Even knowing it won’t be enough, you seek those brief moments of fulfillment in conflict, because it’s all you know how to do. Could you tell me, honestly, that I’m wrong when I say that?”

She couldn’t. Jeanne Alter’s eyes flit towards the door. Forget coming up with a good enough excuse. She’d rather endure Kagetora’s incessant taunting than stand here, getting picked apart by Kagetora’s words, somehow even sharper than her blades.

It’s as if Kagetora knows exactly what Jeanne Alter is thinking. Her arm darts forward, fingers curling around Jeanne Alter’s wrist with an iron grip. “Another thing,” Kagetora murmurs. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while.”

“Let go of me.” In spite of the force behind those words, Jeanne Alter doesn’t try and pull her hand away. Kagetora refuses to release her. She remains fixated on Jeanne Alter, a lightless curiosity shining in a gaze that seems, somehow, the most human that it’s ever been. “What the fuck do you want?”

“You keep saying that you’ll burn whatever you dislike,” Kagetora says. “My Master, the enemy, me. And your fire comes from your hatred. Correct?”

“Yeah?” Jeanne Alter wills herself to stay still, to keep herself from swallowing down that lump in her throat. Kagetora’s hand slides slowly up her gauntlet, climbing along her pauldron. “And?”

Kagetora doesn’t answer immediately. Her fingers poke beneath Jeanne Alter’s armor, cresting the curve of her shoulder. Kagetora’s touch, rough without the barrier of her gloves, sends barely suppressed shivers racing down Jeanne Alter’s spine. “If that’s the case,” Kagetora says, “then why are you the one who suffers most whenever you bring out your fire?”

“Shut up.” The words snap free of Jeanne Alter like a breaking ember. They’re all she can manage to say. Kagetora’s fingers have found a raised patch of flesh, an arching scar tracing the outline of her false Command Spells, still raw and red from when Jeanne Alter’s Noble Phantasm called it onto her skin. Jeanne Alter wrenches her gaze away, finding a blank patch of wall. That, she can tolerate. Looking at the plain gray concrete, she can almost bring herself to slow her breathing, to forget how close Kagetora is.

“You’re right that I don’t understand humans. I still can’t even begin to try and comprehend them.” Kagetora’s other hand touches the inside of Jeanne Alter’s arm, working at the clasps holding her gauntlet in place. “But I can understand you well enough. I know that when you refuse to look at someone like this, it’s because you’re hiding something.” Kagetora works her way up Jeanne Alter’s arm, buckle by buckle, piece by piece, laying her armor out beside hers on the table. “I know that when your skin grows hot like this, you’re thinking of something you despise. And I know that you love to talk— so when you’re quiet like this, it’s because there’s something that you’re unable to say.”

This time, Kagetora doesn’t need to ask if she’s right. She knows that she is; she knows Jeanne Alter wouldn’t give her an answer either way. In a sense, the Alter’s silence is her answer— she’s all too eager to declare when Kagetora’s mistaken, and yet now she can’t bring herself to speak. She remains motionless as Kagetora works through her armor, staring at the wall as though her gaze alone could melt through it and give her the way out that she herself is too afraid to take.

“I was the same way, too.” Kagetora’s hands stop at the chain holding Jeanne Alter’s neck guard in place. “Because of how I was, how everyone around me saw me, I was never able to say when I wanted something. Everyone around me— even my own family— thought me to be a monster. When you hear that for so long, isn’t it only natural that you start to believe it?” Kagetora giggles, a hint of her old laugh slipping through the cracks in her smile. “That’s why I became the avatar of Bishamonten. If you’re a god, who cares if you’re a monster? But then, if you’re a god, why should you ever want anything else?”

“That’s your reason for becoming a god?” Jeanne Alter tries to find it in herself to grin, to mock Kagetora, but she can’t. For some reason, she can’t even bring herself to call Kagetora pathetic.

“Yes. If I couldn’t find a place for myself among those humans, then the least I could do was guide them. You see— to a human, there isn’t much difference between a god and a monster. The only distinction is whose side the humans think you’re on.” Kagetora’s smile shifts, something emerging that sounds more like a sigh than a laugh. What she’d never say, not even to Jeanne Alter, is that her decision had only sealed her separation from humankind. She would be forever remembered as the avatar of the god of war, not as the woman whose name she’d regretted abandoning.

“I know you push others away because of your anger, and because it’s your nature as an Avenger. But you hate being lonely, don’t you?” Kagetora asks. Again, Jeanne Alter doesn’t answer. They both know the answer that Kagetora expects, the unspoken truth between them. It’s etched in the hesitation in Jeanne Alter’s gaze, hidden well by a hostility that not many would try to look past. Kagetora had found an escape in claiming godhood, but no such thing exists for Jeanne Alter. She bears the weight of her isolation, and her hatred of herself for causing it, alone. “That’s the real reason you keep coming back.”

Finally, Jeanne Alter looks away from the wall. Kagetora catches only a glimpse of her gaze as it drops to the ground. That, just as much as the burning heat beneath Jeanne Alter’s skin, tells her that every word she’s spoken has struck true. Her hands begin to move again, working at the chains still holding Jeanne Alter’s armor to her body.

“I know you think of yourself as an imperfect copy of your original, that saint,” Kagetora says. Her fingers tangle in the chains, drawing Jeanne Alter’s eyes to her. Now, it’s Kagetora who can’t meet her gaze, staring steadfastly at the iron coiled around her knuckles. “Do you think this imperfect human, who thinks herself the avatar of Bishamonten, could ask for your company tonight?”

“So this is what you’ve resorted to?” At last Jeanne Alter finds her voice, frayed as it may be. “Trying to get me to spend the night with you just so you can feel something?”

“As I noted earlier, you haven’t exactly rejected me either. Besides,” Kagetora adds with a smile, “It is my duty as the avatar of Bishamonten to attend to the needs of others.”

“God,” Jeanne Alter hisses, grabbing at Kagetora’s shoulders and pushing her back towards the bed. “Will you fucking cut it out with that Bishamonten crap already?”

Kagetora does not answer aloud. Her response is to tug at Jeanne Alter’s chains, dislodging the last piece of her armor. It falls with a clatter to the floor; by the time it’s settled, Jeanne Alter has driven them both onto the bed, her hands wrestling with Kagetora’s top. Kagetora lifts her arms obligingly, her only concession. No sooner has cool air begun to waft over her skin than she’s flipped them back over, digging Jeanne Alter’s shoulder blades back into the mattress. She feels the Alter’s hips quiver beneath hers, trying to buck her off, accompanied by the persistent pressure of Jeanne Alter’s palms against her thighs. Even now, Jeanne Alter’s pride refuses to bend. Though this is nothing new to her, it’s easier to dress the rawness of her soul with token resistance than to acknowledge that she, like Kagetora, has wanted this.

This is their familiar song and dance: Jeanne Alter’s arms collected by Kagetora’s; her wrists pinned amongst the pillows while Kagetora’s teeth nip lines of unfamiliar fire along Jeanne Alter’s neck; whispered curses melting into breathy shudders. Through this, Kagetora remains quiet. Nothing she could say could encompass the flighty feeling urging her to draw her fingers down Jeanne Alter’s cheek. She doesn’t need to speak anyway, not when she can layer kisses and wordless affection thick atop the bite marks blooming on the Avenger’s pale skin.

Kagetora’s fingers part the frayed edges of Jeanne Alter’s undershirt. For all the times they’ve done this, Jeanne Alter never quite gets used to it. Her eyes dart elsewhere— the ceiling, this time— while Kagetora’s hand traverses an uneven field of scars. Her rage has drawn them prominently out tonight; she feels its calling even now. She shouldn’t stay here with Kagetora, it says— she should burn Kagetora, those Masters, Shinjuku; she should offer this Singularity up to a wrathful flame that she knows would never be satisfied, no matter how much she feeds it.

“Nagao.” Jeanne Alter’s fingers flutter against the edge of Kagetora’s hand. Kagetora looks up, her smile half obscured by Jeanne Alter’s collarbone. No doubt she’s heard Jeanne Alter’s voice begin to fail, the cracks in it spreading too far to be hidden any longer. Surely she must see the way Jeanne Alter swallows past the tightness in her throat, the sheen coating her eyes that reflects the inferno churning in her chest. She’s spent enough time around Jeanne Alter to know what these things would mean: this is the closest Jeanne Alter will come outright to asking for comfort.

But Kagetora remains perfectly frozen. No spark of recognition kindles in her gaze. A breathless moment comes and goes. Then, as if feeling Jeanne Alter’s frenzied pulse against her palm has spurred her on, Kagetora begins to move again. Between the fuzzy greyness of the room and her own half-lidded eyes, Jeanne Alter doesn’t see what Kagetora does. All she knows is the heat of a touch not her own, the tension gathering at the point where Kagetora’s body joins with hers. She’s aware, just faintly, of Kagetora releasing her hands; still, she lets them lie. For tonight, she’s content to let Kagetora move above her, drawing out her anger like poison from a wound to the tune of heated breaths that skirt the border of outright moaning.

Kagetora’s hands settle on Jeanne Alter’s hips. Here, and along the length of her legs, is where unblemished skin is overtaken by the scars of a death not truly hers. She knows _of_ it, but nothing of its true heat, incomparable even to the hatred that blisters her soul. (It would only make sense that here is where Kagetora hesitates, tracing their outlines with reverent fingers: she, too, knows well enough what it means to take on something not truly hers.)

Jeanne Alter shivers, knees twitching towards each other. “Kagetora,” she breathes, as much demand as plea. It could mean any of so many things, and none of them are what cross Kagetora’s mind. All she can think of is her name and the violent stirring in her chest, as many emotions whirling madly there as leaves in an autumn breeze. “Kagetora,” Jeanne Alter says again, and the moment crumbles. Yes, that’s right; she’s Kagetora. It’s Kagetora who had yearned for this companionship— it’s Kagetora that Jeanne Alter wants, and no one else.

“Yes?” Kagetora answers. She lifts herself up on her arms, shifting her weight onto her knees, preparing to move back down the bed. She’s stopped by Jeanne Alter’s hand on her elbow: not quite grabbing, but persistent. Again, Kagetora looks at Jeanne Alter— again, their eyes lock. Only this time, it’s not just Jeanne Alter that Kagetora sees. For the briefest moment, her own reflection shines back at her; it’s gone when Jeanne Alter blinks, but there’s that same desperation. She understands, then, what it is that Jeanne Alter means.

“It’s alright,” Kagetora says. “I’ll stay right here where you can see me. Like this.”

Kagetora’s arms envelop Jeanne Alter’s shoulders. Her lips curve along the jagged burns left upon Jeanne Alter’s skin by her Noble Phantasm. The Avenger’s eyes slide shut, her body twisting like a flame under Kagetora’s touch, held still by firm arms. Kagetora works slowly, methodically: from one shoulder to the other, down her chest. Her mouth grazes the space by Jeanne Alter’s breast, and there she feels her shallow, heaving breaths, the heartbeat pattering against her ribs. It’s all Kagetora can do to contain the fervor swelling within herself; her mouth crashes suddenly against Jeanne Alter’s, and the bed is a flurry of motion again. Jeanne Alter’s hands grasp at Kagetora’s back, refusing to let her go. Kagetora, bearing down upon her, finds her kiss met with an equal answering force. For once, Jeanne Alter doesn’t bite down. She takes in Kagetora’s breath and exhales sweet fire, pushes against Kagetora’s weight. This is no act of pride or dominance, but simple need— the desperate desire to fill her ever-present emptiness, answered at last. Kagetora withdraws, nuzzles into Jeanne Alter’s neck, drinks her fill of the winded sigh that flutters past her ear.

“Kagetora.” Jeanne Alter shifts her head, leaning it against Kagetora’s. Her fingers fumble their way into the space just over Kagetora’s heart. It’s a sentimental gesture, one that Jeanne Alter would’ve dismissed at any other time as stupid. Come morning, she’ll deny that she did this at all. Now, she presses her palm to Kagetora’s chest: there’s no use in hiding what she wants, not when it’s plain to read in her eyes; not when Kagetora could just as well reach into herself and find the same wants and answers as Jeanne Alter.

“Alter,” Kagetora whispers against Jeanne Alter’s temple. One hand works its way into the Alter’s hair, the other down her stomach. Jeanne Alter has time for one shaky breath before Kagetora’s fingers work their way between her thighs, pulling a ragged gasp out from her chest. So much time alone has left Jeanne Alter sensitive and wanting. It doesn’t take much for Kagetora to have her clinging to the sheets, hissing feeble curses between spasms of her legs. Still, like the god of war she claims to be, Kagetora too is patient. Her tongue worries the dip between Jeanne Alter’s neck and shoulders while her thumb works slow circles around Jeanne Alter’s clit. The fingers of one hand trace their way through the Alter’s uneven hair with the same methodical motions of the other. Even though they’re underground, Kagetora has Jeanne Alter seeing stars: pinpricks of silver dotting the edges of her darkening vision, traveling in cascades across the ceiling.

Saying what they want is too direct. It’s not in Kagetora’s nature; Jeanne Alter, even now, is still too proud. Instead, she grinds against Kagetora’s hand as best as her unsteady legs will allow. Kagetora, in turn, presses them together: lips to lips, fingers to neck, palm to the peak of Jeanne Alter’s legs. She holds them there, working her fingertips along that spot that earns her such soft and anguished cries, until Jeanne Alter pushes back against her body and screams her name (usually, it’s affection and insult wrapped up in one, _Kenshit_ or _Bitchamonten_ ; tonight, it’s just _Kagetora_ shouted with such devotion that even Kagetora can’t deny the feeling that somewhere in Jeanne Alter’s spirit origin is the remnant of a saint).

The moment lasts forever; it’s never long enough. All too soon, Jeanne Alter finds herself too warm, damp with sweat that makes her feel like she’s awoken from a nightmare rather than in Kagetora’s arms. Again, tonight, it’s different. Jeanne Alter returns to the sensation of fingers working patterns against her spine, tracing by memory the outline of false Command Spells. Kagetora’s lips, a constant pressure against Jeanne Alter’s forehead, murmur her name in a low and reverent chant. Jeanne Alter doesn’t dare look up yet— instead, she buries her face in the crook of Kagetora’s neck, taking what refuge is offered to her while she can. She’ll have to come out soon, come down from that blissful high and acknowledge Kagetora, but there’s no hurry. Kagetora’s content to cradle Jeanne Alter in her arms and take on her weight, the proof of their connection.

It could be hours before Jeanne Alter emerges. It could’ve been minutes, too; all Jeanne Alter has to go by is the slow return of her heartbeat and Kagetora’s to their normal tempos. When she does lift her head, it takes another moment for her to realize what she’s looking at. Kagetora’s off staring at the wall— that much is normal, even expected— but her usual perpetual smile has disappeared. Before she’s even realized it, Jeanne Alter reaches up to Kagetora’s lips, running her fingers over them: this is no product of her imagination; this is real.

“Hm?” Kagetora glances down, confusion tugging at her eyebrows. “What is it, Alter?”

“Mm.” Jeanne Alter drums her fingers against Kagetora’s face, following the line of Kagetora’s mouth just as Kagetora’s fingers dance familiar patterns along her back. “You’re not smiling. Did I ruin your mood or something?”

“What do you mean? I-” Kagetora brushes Jeanne Alter’s hand aside, feeling her own mouth. “Ah-”

What could’ve been the beginnings of a smile are quickly stifled by Jeanne Alter’s palm. She shoves it over Kagetora’s face before her smile can begin to re-form, muffling Kagetora’s protests. “No. Stop.” Jeanne Alter narrows her eyes, glaring at Kagetora. She doesn’t elaborate further than that; she doesn’t need to. Even if she tried, the words would lay beyond her. Everything she could want to say is wrapped up in the pressure of her palm on Kagetora’s mouth and her gaze, less burning and more subdued, burning its way through Kagetora’s chest with no less intensity. _Forget that ‘smiling and helping humans’ shit_ , Kagetora imagines her saying. _Why can’t you just let yourself have something all your own for once?_

“Alter.” Kagetora tugs Jeanne Alter’s hand away, only for her other hand to come back up, smearing the growing smile off her face. “This smile is all I have to try and understand humans. If I’m not-”

“Shut up,” Jeanne Alter mumbles, knocking her head against Kagetora’s shoulder. “You understand me, don’t you?”

“I…” Kagetora trails off, her eyes sliding from Jeanne Alter and back onto the wall. For once, she doesn’t know how to respond. No answer comes immediately to her, as it usually would. In the silence, Jeanne Alter tucks her head back beneath Kagetora’s, nuzzling slowly into her neck.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jeanne Alter breathes. Her voice, like the rest of her, has softened. No longer does it carry the unrelenting force that the Dragon Witch is known for. Rather, it washes up against Kagetora’s ears like the gentle lapping of the coming tide, carrying with it the same warmth curled over her waist and nestled under her chin. “Just stay like this with me.”

“I understand.” Kagetora shifts in place, adjusting her grip on Jeanne Alter. Without her smile, she’s no longer the avatar of Bishamonten, answering yet another request. She’s just Kagetora, pressing her lips to the top of Jeanne Alter’s head, finding a resting place for her hands in the small of Jeanne Alter’s back. If, beneath the creaking of the mattress and the rustling of sheets, there is a whispered thanks— it’s uttered too softly to be heard for certain, lost in the motions of Kagetora burying her face in Jeanne Alter’s hair.

Whether Jeanne Alter hears those words, or feels them brushed against her scalp, she doesn’t say. Her only response is to bring herself closer to Kagetora, tangling their limbs together until the only thing distinguishing the heat of Kagetora’s body from the growing flush on Jeanne Alter’s face are their rapid heartbeats, beating in uneven tandem, leaving no space between them to be filled.

**Author's Note:**

> Sleepwalk by Hitorie is, specifically, a Shinjuku Jaltora song  
> My treatise on how Shinjuku would break down Jalter's character forthcoming in 9 months


End file.
